Playing Cruelty
by Imogen Kain
Summary: An experimental journey into the challenging world of Tarantino. Hazel Montgomery aids Jews fleeing from Nazi oppression, assuming an alias while in Paris. Upon meeting Colonel Hans Landa, her life becomes even more complicated. Landa/OC. Give it a shot!
1. Chapter 1

**Relatively Important Author's Note:**

**Hello, my dears! Thanks for giving this a shot!**

**Just a few quick technicalities. The real A/N's at the end.**

**This story, in a sad attempt to stick to the same universe as the movie, will have other languages in it, namely French and German, as well as English. I'm fairly okay at French, so at least I'll know my grammar is correct, but I know virtually no German. Any help or corrections is welcomed. Also, any foreign language will either be explained or will not interfere with the story. I hope the switches in language will be pretty much clear, but a lot of it will be written in English, simply so everyone can understand. If anything's left to question, let me know and I'll do what I can to fix it. **

**Any historical discrepencies I'll ask you to overlook. I mean, seriously. The movie was not historically accurate. Why should my fic be? I don't want to research it THAT much! :) I'm going off a partial college education here, so I know a bit about WWII. I don't think the inaccuracies will be distracting, but if they are, let me know.**

**I want this story to be relatively dynamic, so any and all reviews will be greatly appreciated! Thank you so much for reading! Let me know what you think.**

* * *

We'd been camping there for six days before they found us. In my experience, that was usually the case. As soon as you started to feel secure, get used to the idea of staying in one place, start to believe you could really make it work for quite a while and that you wouldn't die tomorrow, they found you.

Lack of movement is a mistake, of course, but these runaways, these escapees, these unfortunate people—mothers, children, husbands, wives, most of whom hadn't eaten for a week and had been running for much longer—wanted only to rest, just for a while.

So we set up a temporary camp in the deep woods, due in part to the fact that, when we looked at them, all we knew was pity. I was there to help these people. If that meant allowing them the smallest moment of happiness it was well worth the additional danger.

Though of course, it was all for naught on those occasions when their faith in us was destroyed, when they were caught before they could reach the borders of safety.

I could only speak with a few people in this particular group; I didn't know the language. American born, I'd only moved to France six years ago, in 1935, before the start of the war. I was relatively fluent in French, but the two Jewish families we were helping had traveled all the way from the Netherlands and spoke only Dutch. One of my three colleagues could converse with them effortlessly but the rest of us made due with gestures.

All in all, there were eleven of us in the group—too large a number but we planned on splitting up once we reached the river. A wealthy Frenchman, Luc, and I would lead one family to our correspondences further south—very capable hands—as we both had obligations in Paris and were expected back there soon. The other family would stay with Guy, another citizen of France, and Christoph, Austrian born, until they reached the safety of Switzerland.

I never really found out why the men with whom I worked chose to help Jewish refugees escape to Switzerland or Spain. We had a sort of Underground Railroad set up and the unspoken rule was that the fewer questions asked, the better. I was never even sure if I knew their real names.

My own name was well known among Ally and Axis forces alike, though of course I went by alias while attempting to live a regular life in Paris. There, I was simply Adele Benoit. My real identity—the American Hazel Montgomery—was unfortunately far too high-profile for its use to be safe anymore, mostly because of my own foolish mistakes. I used to let people know who I was, which only forced me to completely alter my identity.

I could pass as French to anyone who didn't look too deeply into my world, so to those who were not colleagues, I was Adele.

The one thing that was common among Guy, Luc, Christoph and myself, besides our sympathy with the plight of the persecuted, was that we were all incredibly wealthy. I say this with no arrogance or egotism; I am merely stating a fact that made protecting the fugitives _much_ easier. In their racist ignorance, Nazi soldiers tended to overlook the amount of resources often required in successfully hiding enemies of the state, focusing their attention instead on poorer families, with whom they assumed the Jews consorted.

We knew better, of course. More than once, ample funds had saved my life and the lives of refugees in my care.

Hazel Montgomery was rumored to be very poor and living in a hidden cabin just over the borders of Spain.

If only they could see my apartment in Paris…

Besides common humanity and the belief that my inheritance should be spent on something worthwhile instead of dresses and hats, I had no reason to be doing what I was doing. I'd lived with my grandmother most of my life and her death had had nothing to do with the war. I hadn't even heard the word "Nazi" until I'd been in France for a few years and I was not in the position where I could be persecuted by them, before I started helping their enemies.

It started, really, when I met the DuPonts, a Jewish family I'd become acquainted with upon moving to Paris. Their kindness towards me was incredible and I was very fond of them. When the war started I offered them a place in my home, which was large and had many areas to hide.

They were the first people I helped save; I saw them safely to Spain, with the invaluable aid of over twenty other sympathetic individuals.

From there, it became something of a self-imposed calling; I grew enthusiastic at the thought of, not only the lives I could save, but the thought of surviving _with_ them. I'd grown up a bored little rich girl in New York. Doing something, especially something so difficult and worthwhile, felt right.

Terrifying, yes, but right.

* * *

We'd built a fire, perhaps our first mistake. If the S.S. were patrolling the woods—which, despite my naïve hopefulness, was always a distinct possibility—they'd see the smoke rapidly. But winter was coming swiftly and the nights were getting colder. We hoped to reach Switzerland before the snows came. Fires meant losing fewer people to harsh conditions. I'd thought it would be okay. We hadn't had any kind of disturbance for nine days and we were almost at the next safe-house.

"A rest will do no harm," I told Luc. How I regretted my words only an hour later…

It had been a long day and I was exhausted, so while the rest of them chatted almost easily around the fire—sure that they were practically in the clear; Switzerland was only one safe-house and a week away—I laid down on my blanket in a small patch of grass and drifted off.

I was woken by the sounds of voices, heavy boots tromping through the woods, fierce German orders I could no more understand than I could like. There were new lights now, dim torches shining in my eyes, and I rolled over immediately, heart racing, grabbing a handkerchief and wrapping it around the lower half of my face, quickly berating myself for not putting it on before going to sleep.

I was not about to allow these German soldiers to get a clear view of my visage; not a single one had yet and I wanted to keep it that way. The other men had done the same, I knew, and they were actually being worthwhile in perhaps getting the two families into the dark safety of the woods.

I found myself overwhelmed as I scrambled to my feet, attempted to gain my bearings, and ducked as a bullet whizzed by my ear. The Germans, I came to understand, could see about as well as the rest of us, the ineffectiveness of their flashlights rather crippling; as such, their aim was abysmal. Which was a good thing, too. In the light of day, I'd have been dead.

I couldn't see if anyone was apprehended but right then my first instinct was to get my hands on any refugee I could and get them the hell out of there.

I finally laid eyes on the youngest girl in our group, cowering in fright, the shadows of the surrounding trees her only protection. I lurched towards her, desperate to grab her and run. It was darkness, confusion, and pandemonium and I could see no one else, besides the outlines of tall German officers, all screaming commands meant to frighten and intimidate.

My heart pounded as I reached towards the girl—her name was Ibel—and she saw me, caught onto my meaning, turned and sprinted away, the shrewd thing. I wanted to protect her and I was sure she assumed I would follow her to do just that; being alone in the woods would have seemed a fate worse than death to the poor child.

If I had been a bit quicker, I could have helped her.

As it was, I barely took two steps before my hair—longer than I usually kept it—was seized in an incredibly stalwart grip and tugged, forcing the rest of me back with it. I screamed as I fell backwards, tumbling to the ground, my head landing on shiny black boots which immediately withdrew themselves from under me.

I looked up only to find a flashlight shining in my eyes. I made an attempt at scrambling into a seated position, but the boot lifted and stomped down hard on my chest, pinning me to the ground and knocking the wind from me in the same movement. Unable to do anything else, I crept my hand towards the gun hidden under my coat.

"_Wer ist das, Standartenführer_?" one of the soldiers asked the man with whose boot I was becoming very closely acquainted.

Judging from his respectful tone and the use of "Standartenführer," this man was a high ranking official. His foot pressed down slightly, eliciting a wheeze from me, but I didn't think he noticed that I was reaching for my gun.

"_Wenn ich mich nicht irre_," the colonel said in surprisingly mild tone, "_ist est Hazel Montgomery_."

God, I needed to learn German. I could only gather that this man knew who I was simply by seeing my half-masked face. I wasn't familiar with his voice, however, which led to me to believe that I had never actually met him.

That probably meant he'd been looking for me.

My fingers touched the metal handle of my pistol.

The colonel called a few orders back to his men and some of them took off in each direction, searching the woods for the rest of my companions. I breathed a sigh of relief. They'd heard them coming with enough time to scatter.

At the very least, they had a head start.

I hoped Ibel would be alright.

"_Je ne peux pas me rappeler_," the man said, suddenly switching to extremely fluent French, "_si vous parlez le francais ou… non_?"

He was wondering if I spoke French; more specifically, he said he couldn't remember if I did. Who _was_ this man? He obviously knew more about me than I liked.

I decided to keep my French a secret.

"Go to hell, Nazi pig," I hissed in English.

The beam of the flashlight shifted away from my eyes and, after a moment of rapidly blinking, I was able to see the details of his face as he stared down at me, a charming dimpled smile on his lips.

I hated him as soon as I saw him, and of course I knew who he was. I'd seen his picture regularly in the newspapers.

Colonel Hans Landa of the S.S. was not particularly young, but nor could anyone call him old. In reading about him—he was, after all, one of the most dangerous of his kind; they called him the Jew Hunter for a reason—I'd learned he hailed from the Austrian Alps, was very well respected by German powers and soldiers alike, and was known for being extremely clever, extremely charming, and extremely merciless.

He had a strong jaw, full lips which spread into a devastatingly magnetic grin—with dimples—and bright blue eyes. Light brown hair with a hint of grey at either temple completed his disarmingly dashing appearance; seeing him in a uniform would make any girl under the Nazi banner swoon. He knew it, too. From what I'd heard, he'd never had a problem finding women in high places and helping them shatter their reputations.

This, I think, was what was so terrifying about Hans Landa. A villain such as he should have been ugly, unintelligent and unpopular. He was the antithesis of each of those.

As I stated before, I _hated_ him.

"What luck!" he said in English, that stupid, proud smile still plastered on his face. "It is a pleasure to _finally_ meet you, Miss Montgomery. I will admit I have been looking forward to this for quite some time!"

All said with a smile. I had to resist the urge to spit at him.

I grasped my pistol, ready to put lead between his eyes. Considering my aim, however, coupled with my position on the ground at such an awkward angle—craning my head back to look at him—this would be next to impossible.

I'd be delighted if the bullet hit him at all.

"Who are you, again?" I asked, getting the inkling that digs at his pride would be most effective.

Sure enough, his smile slipped very slightly.

"I apologize, how rude," he said, his tone a bit lower. "I am Hans Landa of the S.S."

I pretended to think for a moment.

"Nope," I lied through my kerchief, "never heard of you."

His boot dug into my chest.

"Rest assured, Miss Montgomery, I've heard of you. Your actions, to me, educe a great deal of interest. I've been following them quite closely. Does this meeting really come as much of a surprise?"

I smiled, letting it reach my eyes as my finger wrapped around the trigger.

"Yes," I said. "I must have been oblivious to it. Tell me, Colonel Landa, how long _have_ you been chasing me, exactly?"

Landa's eyes flicked upwards momentarily as he thought. I used his fleeting distraction to pull out the gun, and when his eyes darted back down to me and he saw the barrel pointed right at him, I pulled the trigger.

He stepped back, away from me, trying to dodge the bullet which just scraped his left shoulder. I jumped up as he stumbled, surprised that my plan had worked, and ran full speed into the woods.

I heard them following for a while. Then their lights faded behind me and, after a time, even their voices.

I just kept running.

* * *

I'd been in Paris for two weeks before the fate of the Dutch families reached me. Cristoph arrived at my doorstep, bearing the news.

They'd all reached Switzerland. None of them had been captured.

Guy and Luc had not been so lucky. Luc was shot down in the woods, his grave the base of an oak tree. Guy hadn't been heard from since that night; this meant he had been captured, had been wounded and crawled away to die, or, in the best case scenario, was hiding out.

I cried for them and laughed in relief for the Dutch families simultaneously, clinging to Cristoph's arms in the middle of my kitchen.

"What happened?" he asked once I'd calmed down a bit. "We got them out of there as quickly as we could. When we realized you weren't with us…" He shook his head.

I sunk down onto the couch and told him about my meeting with Hans Landa.

Christoph's eyes flickered with fear as soon as I said the Jew Hunter's name. The man was tremendously dangerous, brutal, but most of all intelligent.

"You say he knew you," Cristoph said. "Your mask was on the entire time?"

I nodded, subconsciously feeling the lower half of my face as though I could conjure the memory in sharper detail simply by doing so.

"I wonder how you were recognized."

"Cristoph," I sighed, shaking my head, "how many women matching my description do you see running about the woods with Jewish fugitives? Landa didn't _have_ to have seen me before to know exactly who and what I was. The mask would have given up my identity immediately."

"True," Christoph muttered, lowering himself into an armchair. "Now, this presents a rather striking problem."

I frowned at him. I agreed, Landa has seen the color and shape of my eyes, but brown wasn't exactly a rare hue for irises. My hair, which had been in a long braid that night, was never coifed into such a style while I was in town. The problem wasn't so much _striking_ as it was _easily managed_.

But Christoph always had a point. I raised my eyebrows, asking him to continue.

"Hans Landa lives in Paris," he said, something I knew already. I nodded. "So what happens, Hazel my dove, when your eminent social status brings you into yet _another_ German _soiree_ and Landa, who's fame spreads like wildfire, is at the same event?"

Such a situation was hardly feasible. It was true that I'd been invited to more than one Nazi get-together—Adele Benoit was not a prolific supporter of the Germans though she stayed on good terms with them—but I'd never seen Landa at one.

"_Risible_," I whispered, looking down. "It will _not happen_, Christoph."

I hoped.

* * *

I stared at myself in the mirror, heaving a deep breath as I smoothed down the green chiffon on my stomach and turned slightly to the side.

This was the third party this month that I was obligated to attend, for fear of insulting some rich Nazi, and they were starting to strain my nerves. It was never a comfortable crowd to be surrounded by and, at the moment, a Jewish family was hiding in a small room behind a bookcase in my parlor. Once, a few German soldiers had all but demanded to accompany me back to my apartment for drinks and I'd been sick with anxiety after they left.

I'd dyed my hair a rich mahogany brown three days after returning from the encounter with Landa—which I liked far more than my natural mousy blond—and had it curled fashionably that morning in a salon.

Admittedly, I'd never quite gotten over the charm of preparing for a party. Ever since my youth doing so was a true pleasure. Wearing pretty gowns, pampering myself, having an excuse to go to a stylist at the center of Paris, being surrounded by high fashion… I was living any girl's dream.

Except this one had Nazis.

The festivities that night were held in the house of an extremely wealthy Vichy Frenchman by the name of Louis Crevalier, a dogmatic Nazi supporter. I'd met Louis three years ago and pretended to be charmed and rather in love with him ever since. In truth, I found the man odorous, but I kind of liked the idea of leading him on. If he ever tried to make a serious move, he'd be sorely disappointed.

"Mademoiselle Benoit!" he greeted me as soon as I entered, as though he'd been hovering by the door to await someone he felt he might get to see naked that night.

Louis was handsome and had more than one girl after him. They must not have arrived yet.

"Monsieur Crevalier, you're looking well," I told him in French, unable to keep a touch of boredom from my tone as I looked over gilded railings to the crowded ballroom below.

I noted more than one German uniform and tried not to cringe at the oversized swastika tapestry hanging from the banister opposite.

"What a lovely crowd. It seems you have every single German officer in Paris here."

Louis chuckled, the laugh obviously outweighing his amusement.

"_Oui, presque tout a fait_," he agreed. "We should dance, Mademoiselle."

"And we should do so all night," I said, groaning inwardly and taking his proffered arm. We made our way down the stairs and into the crowd of dancers.

* * *

******A/N:**

******Inglourious Basterds is a phenomenal movie, so much so that I actually feel the need to say I have no hope of doing any kind of justice to it, even the very limited amount a fanfiction can do. However, my addiction to it--and to the character Hans Landa, as portrayed by Christoph Waltz, who I hope to see more of in the future--has been so strong that I just HAD to write this and post it. It's all I can think about at present, and I've been neglecting my other stories to bring you this. The chapters will probably be shorter than in my other stories, but that means I'll be posting more, especially if I am the lucky recipient of a buncha reviews!!**

**I guess if you're here I don't really have to justify a Hans Landa/ OC romance, but if you're skeptical or here because you got a Favorite Authors alert, I ask you to hear me out. Yes, I know Landa is an SS officer, and that he works for Nazis, and for a while that thought gave me a stomach ache. BUT BUT BUT!! **

**I found this interview on SlashFilms with Christoph Waltz, the guy who plays Landa and, so, has more authority to talk about the character than almost anyone else:**

**"What makes him so intriguing is exactly that; he's not driven by an ideology. When people say "Nazi," it's such a gross generalization, I feel. And sometimes I feel compelled to say,_ "Well, he's not even a Nazi." _Yes, he wears that uniform, but he doesn't care. Not about Nazi ideology. He's completely unideological. He just understands how the world turns, and in that way, he's three steps ahead of everyone else."**

**So, I swing with that. In the movie, Aldo accuses him of being a Nazi and he denies this, calling himself a "damn good detective." I'm rolling with that. **

**If you hate it, don't read. No one's forcing you.**

**More to come soon (given the way I've been writing this, probably VERY soon)! Let me know what you think! Review please!!**


	2. Chapter 2

**See, I told you I'd be quick!**

**You know what I'd like in return? Some reviews. Fo realz, yo. I LOVE reviews. And I'll love you if you give them!!**

**Quickly, I want to just thank Loboscha for the help with German in the last chapter. It was VERY much appreciated. I've edited it, so it should be okay.**

**Enjoy and REVIEW!!!**

* * *

It wasn't until Louis had drug me through three successive songs that I started to think perhaps he _had_ been waiting around the entrance for me specifically and I simultaneously started to bemoan my foolish flirting. Of course, he could no more sense my disdain than he could read my head, and I had to excuse myself for a prolonged trip to the powder room before he'd take his hands off me.

When I returned to the dance floor, I saw that Louis was mercifully preoccupied by another girl, this one a German movie star, Eva Von Something-or-other. Sighing in relief, I found my way outside to the patio, eager to smoke a cigarette and unwind under the beautiful night sky.

I spotted a few men near a fountain, some of whom I knew, none of whom were in uniform, and decided that I shouldn't keep completely to myself all night. Utilizing a trick I'd learned almost immediately upon coming to Paris, I sat down in a chair and held an unlit cigarette between my fingers, a clear invitation for the men to approach me and lend me a light and a conversation.

Making sure not to even glance their way once my cigarette was in place—French men absolutely loved being ignored and American men loved it because French men did—I formed my expression into a mask of boredom and waited.

It took perhaps five seconds before I heard a lighter click and the tobacco started to burn. I looked to my left, expecting a dapper young man, smiling at me slyly.

Instead I found myself gazing into twinkling blue eyes.

I caught myself just before instinct would have taken over and caused me to flee as fast as I could in the opposite direction, instead taking a calming puff on my cigarette in an effort to make my undoubtedly horrified expression seem natural and disinterested.

"_Merci_, _monsieur_," I thanked him for the light, my voice wavering slightly as I glanced towards the boys by the fountain, all of whom looked as though they'd been about to approach me, but were now backing off. I wished they would come back.

This man was the last person I wanted to see. My pulse began to race. My blood began to boil. I felt an odd rush of terror and anger as I looked at the man I'd met once before, in a dark wood.

I cast my eyes to the ground in the hopes that he wouldn't recognize them.

Colonel Landa smiled at me in so charming a fashion that, had I not known who he was, I would've been enamored right then and there. As it was, it took all my strength not to start sobbing from pure terror. I pursed my lips and took a deep breath through my nose, smiling at him tightly.

Landa nodded at me, his grin widening. I considered myself fairly adroit at reading people—indeed, it was one of my few talents—but the colonel's eyes remained a mystery. I couldn't tell _anything_ about what he was thinking, and it unnerved me so deeply that I found myself leaning away from him.

Had he recognized me?

"_Bonjour, mademoiselle_," he said, his voice soft and his accent impeccable. "_Je suis Colonel S.S. _Hans Landa_._"

I could hear his Austro-German roots only in the way he said his name. Had he not looked remarkably Austrian, I would have assumed by his accent that he was, in fact, French.

The way he introduced himself was disarmingly modest; it would appear that, unlike so many officers of his rank, he didn't automatically assume I knew who he was. I didn't buy it for a moment of course, but I smiled tightly again.

"_Oui_, _je sais_," I told him. I lowered the pitch of my voice slightly and stuck to French, in case he had a good ear and could recognize voices. I very rarely spoke in English while in Paris; it was safer that way. "I know who you are, Herr Colonel."

Then, rather coldly, I turned my head and looked across the garden, blatantly ignoring his presence.

This did not perturb him. He pulled a chair up beside me and took a seat as well, lighting his own cigarette. I glanced at him despite myself, found him watching me with clear interest.

My blood began to pound harder as I noticed his expression. _Did_ he recognize me? As the moments went by, I was more and more certain that he did.

If he didn't, why was he wasting his time? Why not go inside and chat up a Nazi film star, dance with a girl ten times prettier than I?

I refused to converse freely with him. He'd have to give up sooner or later.

"Wonderful!" he said, raising his arms slightly, beaming. "How wonderful! Then there is no need on my part to say more."

I stared at the far end of the garden blankly for a moment before his lips parted slightly and he leaned forward with apparently intense fascination.

"_Donc, ma cher, comment vous appelez-vous_?"

Was he truly so interested in my name?

He blinked a few times at my silence, still smiling. I glanced at him again and quirked an eyebrow, trying to appear hugely indifferent to his presence and not at all interested in his face which, this close, was possibly even better looking than I'd first surmised.

That thought irritated me and my nostrils flared. He was an idiot if he couldn't see that his presence was bothersome but he continued to behave as though I was swooning for him.

"Adele Benoit," I replied with a curt nod.

He caught my right hand—the one in which I did not hold a cigarette—and pressed soft lips against it.

"_Enchante_," he muttered over it.

I shuddered in disgust as I felt warm breath against my skin, and I think he took this as a shiver of delight or sexual attraction, because when he looked back up at me his expression was wolfish. He was simply _positive_ he had me, now. The pig.

And still, my mind was racing. _Did_ he or _did _he _not_ recognize me?!

"Adele Benoit…" he mused, releasing my fingers, which came back against my stomach so quickly I had to scratch my torso in an attempt to make it look quasi-normal.

I was not doing very well… Hopefully, though, he didn't know who I was and attributed my nervous behavior to the fact that he was a dashing man and I was a shy woman.

"I've heard your name before too, if memory serves. I hear you leave quite the impression!" He chuckled good-naturedly.

I frowned at this, curious despite myself, finally meeting his eyes for the first time since he'd lit my cigarette. Which Nazi had I insulted? I was relatively positive I'd been extremely polite and moderately flirtatious with all of them; my ruse demanded it. Of course, I _wanted _to spit in their horrible faces every time they leered at me, and each time they took my hand in theirs I desired nothing more than to break their fingers. But I'd become very good at hiding these impulses.

I'd _thought _I'd charmed my way into every Nazi official's heart on this side of the Seine. But if what Landa said was true, if I left an impression, perhaps I'd been wrong.

"What kind of impression?" I asked, leaning forward with a smile as though we were sharing secrets.

Adele had no reason to dislike this man—she'd never had problems with German soldiers in the past—and if Landa had heard of me, he would know this. I was acting suspicious by acting indifferent. My reputation suggested I was usually otherwise.

"The vox populi," Landa replied, leaning back casually, "indicates that you are a wonderful conversationalist! So, naturally, I am delighted to have, quite by chance, found you. What luck!"

The last two words were proclaimed in abrupt English.

My heart plummeted and I stared at Landa, unable to hide the flicker of horror that crossed my face as I remembered the same phrase coming from the colonel's mouth the _last_ time we'd met.

What luck, indeed.

Landa was staring at me, still smiling, but his grin dropped away as he noticed my reaction, which I was unable to hide. He leaned forward.

"Something wrong?" he asked briskly, back to speaking French, looking genuinely concerned, his eyes darting around before focusing unnervingly back on my face.

"_Non_," I whispered, then cleared my throat. My voice was louder when I spoke next. "Uh… _non_, HerrLanda. _Je suis bien.._."

I stood up, my hands shaking. Gripping my skirt, trying to stop them, I sighed and shook my head.

"_J'ai un mal de tête_," I lied, placing my fingers on my forehead to indicate the source of my false pain and turning from him as he stood up quickly, wanting to assist me.

I waved him away, thoroughly unnerved by this whole ordeal and unable to take much more.

"I'll be alright; But I'm afraid that, tonight, I can't do much for your entertainment. My headache is too distracting. _Je fais des excuses._ _C'etait un plaisir de vous rencontrer,_ Colonel Landa."

I was lying. It certainly was _not_ a pleasure to meet him.

"_S'il vous plait_, _mademoiselle_, call me Hans."

He caught my hand again and kissed it. I watched him, stomach boiling with nausea.

"_Alors, _Hans," I muttered, smiling over gritted teeth. "_Au revoir_."

See you again. I wished I could sound blatantly menacing.

He smiled.

"Let us hope so."

I swept away without looking back.

* * *

I managed to hold myself together for the entire taxi ride back to my apartment.

Leaving the party had been a blur; people—just faces, really—asked if I was feeling well, said I was deathly pale, wondered where I was going, asked if I needed help. I'd managed to briefly explain to a few of them that I had a pounding headache, but it didn't go over my head that they thought I was behaving oddly.

I'd set myself up, really. Adele's constant cheerfulness, flirtations and wit, her never ending laughter, her fondness for everyone she met, had made my character a popular one at parties. Of course, it had always been easy to act that way, simply because it _was_ an act and anything Hazel was, Adele kept tucked away. But now…

Landa's appearance had scared me—truly _scared _me in a way I hadn't experienced—and his unnerving, calculating, predatory eyes stayed with me. I'd let Adele's façade drop, unable to keep it up in my terror, and agonized all the way home that someone would discern this and inquisitions would be made.

I told myself no, that no one would notice and Landa would simply assume he'd met me on the wrong night. In this way, I kept hysteria at bay at least until I'd stumbled in my front door. Then, I started bawling like an infant.

* * *

It took three hours before I could stop crying but, at the end of it all, I came to an empowering recognition.

I _would_ see Landa again—I'd make quite sure of it.

If it was as Adele, I would charm him, make him forget the events of our first meeting and quell any suspicions he may have. I'd be so utterly wonderful that he would have no choice but to love me a little; men admired passion and Landa was only a man.

This helped, and every time I told myself such, I felt better. I could handle men. Landa was not a monster, he was male.

I knew very well how to manipulate them. In fact, my specialty lay in Nazi soldiers stationed here, who often had weaknesses for Frenchwomen.

I wasn't technically a Frenchwoman but no one knew that.

However. If I met Landa as Hazel…

I'd kill him without hesitation.

Perhaps I'd have to the opportunity to do both. What an end for the Jew Hunter—if I could get him to become enamored, it would be all the more satisfying when I revealed my true identity and betrayed his trust before slitting his throat.

I fantasized about it, thought of laughing as I told him I could never possibly feel any amount of respect, much less love, for a man with such evil ideologies and prejudices. I would tell him I felt nothing but contempt for him, watch his face fall before I delivered his ultimate punishment.

If given the opportunity, I would make sure he died in pain both emotional and physical.

Without realizing it, this became my plan. It would be the ultimate revenge for everything he'd done and I savored the fact that, when I was finished with him, his pride would be gone.

I must pause to say that I, by no means, thought of men the way I thought of Landa. Never were they objects to me and I'd never gone about attempting to destroy someone by pursuing them and using their own feelings against them. It wasn't the kind of woman I was, though of course I knew girls who tended to do just that.

Despite Adele being somewhat of a flatterer, I was much too genuine to make a usual practice of it.

This was what made my plan perfect, of course. My relationships, while few and discreet, had always been real and ended amiably. My reputation would quell any doubts Landa might be harboring.

The Jew Hunter deserved it, I told myself. He'd caused so much pain for so many people, had terrorized and stalked and killed some of the families I'd known personally, and I felt no regret during my planning process.

* * *

I started researching him that night and throughout the weeks that followed. Reading reports of his activities only served to deepen my hatred. The German government submitted glowing reviews; his methods were slightly theatrical but it could not be said that he didn't get the job done, and thoroughly.

There was very rarely a case he hadn't solved, people he hadn't found. He'd even found _me_, and the fact that I'd escaped did not prevent him from listing this as one of his accomplishments.

Anyone I spoke to who knew Hans Landa personally only had wonderful things to say. The women tended to paint him just as I expected: charming, dapper, hilarious and intelligent. The men tended to admire him—some were even jealous—and spoke of his accomplishments in his career.

"He never ceases to surprise me," Louis Cavalier told me at a cocktail party. "The way he balances politics and society is truly remarkable."

"He gets opinionated, surely," I intoned, searching Louis's eyes. "They all do."

By 'they' I mean members of the Nazi party.

Louis thought for a moment, a hand arched elegantly under his chin.

"_Non_," he said, a crease appearing between his eyebrows as he seemed to realize something. "_Non_, Landa is usually very mild. He'll engage in political discussions if provoked, but generally…" He shrugged, looking away and taking a drink from the champagne flute in his hand. "I confess, he bores me. Let's talk of other things, _ma cher._"

This was a clear sign that Louis was threatened by the man. I smiled.

"You don't think Herr Landa is charming?" I queried innocently, simply to watch the expression that flitted across his face: badly hidden surprise, coupled with jealousy and a flash of anger. He stared at me, so I raised my eyebrows and waved my hand carelessly. "I mean, he left quite… an impression. I'd like meet him again."

Louis ran a hand through his hair.

"_Intéressant_," he muttered, trying to smile. "He said just the same about you."

I straightened, burning for all the information Louis had to offer, but forced myself to appear disinterested and looked away, towards a window.

"Did he?" I asked idly. "You spoke to him about me?"

"He asked," Louis said, also feigning disinterest but obviously wondering why I cared. He took a drag off his cigarette. "I told him not to waste his time." He looked back at me, eyes twinkling. "You won't give an inch to any one of your admirers."

I rolled my eyes and elbowed him, making him laugh.

I waited for a moment, wondering if Louis would offer any more information. He said nothing.

"You're having a _soiree_ next week, _oui_?" I asked. Louis nodded, already knowing where I was going with this. "Will the colonel be there?"

"I've sent him an invitation," Louis said, suddenly cold. He turned from me, hailing a girl across the room, "Madeleine!"

I was left alone with my thoughts. Next week, then, Colonel Landa.

Next week the games would begin.

* * *

I spent the day of Louis's party—the _entire_ day, mind you—preparing, primping, powdering and styling myself as close to perfection as I could come. This wasn't exactly _close_, per se, but at least when I looked in the mirror, I saw "pretty."

_Pas belle, mais jolie._

I wore a deep red formal dress that night, wanting to look the part of the seductress. It was floor length silk chiffon with a short train and butterfly sleeves, an absolutely lovely garment. The thing that sold me on it, however, was the neckline. _Haute couture_, it was cut nearly as low as my navel, narrow enough to be classy but sexy enough to border on scandalous. I'd be the talk to the party in it, and hopefully it would be enough to attract Landa's undivided attention.

My hair was styled and pulled back into a twisting bun. I forwent a hat in favor of the gorgeous 'do, dramatic makeup—red lips, smoky eyes—and delicate silver jewelry.

I'll admit, I had a very fun time with it. I couldn't remember a time when I'd cared enough to look so glamorous and I would savor every moment Landa's eyes were turned on me.

I paused, frowning and looking myself over in the mirror. In a very short time—only two weeks—this man, and his downfall, had become something of an obsession.

I realized I was dressing for him, making myself up for the sole purpose of his attention, and while I knew what my ultimate plan entailed, the fact that I was doing so made me feel a bit ill. To an outsider, it would appear as though I actually had a crush on him.

I pursed my lips and growled at the mere thought.

My plan _would_ work. The Jew Hunter would die at my hands, so help me God.

Decisively, I yanked my neckline—already near my naval—an inch or two lower, then turned and swiftly left my apartment, headed for what promised to be an eventful evening.

* * *

"_Mon Dieu_, Adele."

These were the words with which I was greeted upon entering Cavalier's mansion, and they were spoken behind fanned hands pressed against red lips.

I looked to my left to find a rather fair-weather acquaintance—she would call herself my friend but I felt no amount of affection for the woman—by the name of Sophie Bellerive.

"_Quelle robe merveilleuse_!" she exclaimed, obviously much less than sincere and simply green with jealousy.

Sophie was one of those people who believed herself mysterious, sensual and alluring and managed to fool many people that she was exactly that. But I could see just how hard she tried to maintain this ruse and, while she wanted me to be threatened by her, I only disliked her for her snobbish attitude.

"_Merci_, Sophie," I replied icily, smiling all the same.

The girls surrounding her offered me perhaps more genuine smiles. I touched my stomach, almost self-conscious but telling myself that this was exactly what Sophie wanted me to feel. She was already seething at the amount of distraction I would cause.

My smile turned sly and I touched my skirt.

"Do you really like it?" I asked sweetly, taking a flute of champagne from one of the passing waiters in white jackets.

Sophie opened her mouth to respond, surely just as sugary sweet as I was being, but got distracted. Her heavily mascaraed eyes flicked over my shoulder and she grinned widely, before wriggling red-painted fingers at someone there.

"Herr Colonel, _mein leibling_!" she called. I rolled my eyes. Even I could tell her accent was horrible. Unalterably French and completely unconvincing. "I'm completely thrilled to see you here! Louis didn't mention _you_ were coming."

"Sophie Bellerive, _quel plaisir_."

Her hand was grasped by someone only slightly behind me, someone I couldn't bring myself to turn and look at, but the voice, that impeccable, amiable French, was distractingly familiar.

My breath left me. Why did the Nazi pig insist on sneaking up on me from behind? It almost seemed his intention to surprise and horrify me every time we met.

Perhaps it was. Perhaps he could sense my reaction and knew, on some level, that doing so gave him the upper hand.

Sophie, the idiot, immediately noted my whitened face. She frowned, faux concerned.

"Adele, _ma cher_, what's the matter?" This came out in an awful stage-whisper, meant to embarrass, but it snapped me out of my momentary shock.

"Nothing at all," I said, straightening my shoulders and turning with a smile to the man who was still standing a little behind me. "_Alors_, Colonel Landa. _Pardon_, I meant Hans."

Unable to help myself, I glanced at Sophie, who was trying to look bored but obviously wanted to know how we knew each other.

Landa raised his eyebrows as he recognized me, tilting his head quickly, a small smile lifting one corner of his expressive mouth. He took a deep breath through his nose and was silent for a moment—almost long enough to start to be awkward—before his smile grew wide quite abruptly.

"Adele!" he exclaimed, leaning back a little as I turned around fully, allowing his eyes to drop down the length of my body for a fraction of a second. "Excellent to see you again."

He pressed his lips to my hand, a little longer than necessary. It was impossible not to feel _exactly_ how soft his mouth was. His precise motive, I surmised.

He'd done that before, I realized. In fact, he repeated this rather archaic gesture to every girl he came into contact with. Very rarely did I meet a man who kissed women's hands like that, though I supposed he fancied himself a gentleman.

The very thought was laughable. My mouth twitched.

He caught the swift expression but I'm sure he couldn't have any idea what to attribute it to. He only smiled in return—that charming, vivid smile—and continued to examine me.

It was odd, I realized, the way he looked at me. It was not sexual—though it was a little wolfish—and it was not a stare that made me uncomfortable. It was calculating, yes, as though every moment he was looking, he was also thinking, wondering, making inferences into my character.

He was cataloguing me, my actions and reactions, and using them to predict my motives and even my next move.

I came to the startling realization that, to delight him, I'd have to surprise him. My smile faltered again.

This would be a very long evening.

* * *

**More to come soon! Review, pretty please with sugar on top?!**


	3. Chapter 3

**Well, admittedly this took longer than I anticipated and I will tell you why: I have very little idea what will happen in the short term. I know what I want to do overall, which events will happen later on, but for short term stuff, I'm kind of floundering.**

**Why do I tell you this?**

**So you can help, of course! I'd like to hear what you'd like to see happen! So, please, ANY ideas (any AT ALL) send them my way. Or, if you don't have any ideas, review and let me know how you liked the chapter. I recognize this one's a little slow, but that's why I need you!**

**Ok. Review, please! Love you all!**

**Translation for each phrase at the bottom.**

* * *

If impressing Landa meant keeping him on his toes, I decided to start doing so right away. His momentary hesitation before greeting me presented the perfect opportunity.

I offered him a long smile, opened my mouth, and gently asked a question that I hoped would surprise him, have him faltering for words the way he had had me.

"You forgot my name for a moment, didn't you, Herr Colonel?"

My desired effect came about immediately. Landa's eyes widened, his eyebrows shot up, and his mouth gaped like a fish gasping for air. Behind me, Sophie—whom I'd cut out of the conversation pointedly—giggled at the coming drama.

After his initial shock, however, Landa managed to smile.

"_Je m'excuse_, mademoiselle," he said, the lines around his mouth a little tight. "But, as you'll notice, 'for a moment' would be the operative phrase here." He gave me a long look, which turned into a little chuckle. "I doubt I could forget you for long!"

The way he said it—a lilting, sing-song tone; I couldn't tell whether he was making fun of me or attempting to be endearing.

"_Oui_," I muttered, my lips tightening despite themselves. Taking a deep breath, I forced myself calm. I had to stop showing Landa just how much he infuriated me. "_Mais le fait_, _Herr_ Colonel, is that you _did_ forget, if only for a second." I said this so lightly, he couldn't take it as the challenge it was. "I hope to rectify this."

Landa's eyes glinted. You could see his mind work behind them, I noticed; despite never being able to _interpret _his thoughts, you could tell whenever something surprised him, whenever he realized something and whenever he had a new idea. The miniscule rise of his brows was deeply expressive, and the tilt of his mouth said a thousand words.

He didn't voice much, I had the feeling—at least, he very rarely spoke his _true_ thoughts; he did _say_ a lot, just perhaps not what he was thinking—but he was not so adroit at concealing miniscule facial tics.

I was precisely the opposite. I would often voice, without forethought, what I thought and felt, which delighted some and disgusted others. But, when I had to, I could make my face a mask.

What a pair we were, Hans Landa and I.

The colonel leaned back slightly, his head tilted, eyes betraying the surprise and delight he felt at my words.

"_Pardon_," he said pleasantly. "Rectify _what_, _exactement_?"

I smirked, took a step towards him and laid a hand delicately on his upper forearm. He looked down at my touch for a moment, expression unreadable, his eyes lingering on the red paint on my nails, then brought a bright blue gaze back up to mine.

I leaned forward and all but whispered into his ear.

"I plan to make quite sure you'll never forget who _I_ am, again."

Time to make my exit, for the moment. He'd find me later; I knew this instinctively. I smiled, raised my champagne at Landa and Sophie—delighted at the blossoming intrigue—and walked downstairs.

* * *

I pretended to enjoy myself for the next hour, dancing with men I scarcely knew and flirting with lieutenants and colonels, all the while imagining them shrieking in pain as they were gunned down. I wished for nothing less than the demise of all Nazis, my displeasure growing especially strong whenever one forced me into a conversation on their ideologies or about what a powerful, brilliant man Hitler was.

I was always polite yet disinterested when talk turned political, claiming I had very little knowledge about such things and would only embarrass myself if I tried to speak with them about it.

It was wartime, yes, but one of the perks of being Adele was pretending to be frivolous and light. Not unintelligent—I'd never stoop to acting like a ditz—but content in speaking about things that were not necessarily heavy or important.

I _was_ interested, however, in the rumors of a group of Americans known as the Basterds who would ambush whole Nazi squadrons and kill each and every member in what sounded like simply _satisfying_ ways. They were known for scalping the groups, taking the hair for their own personal collections.

I imagined perhanps meeting them some day, maybe joining in on the fun. The fantasy kept me from going insane, surrounded by these dull, evil men.

Louis was attentive to me that night—his fervor increased by the minute—and I humored him, but remained distantly blithe, never allowing myself to be cornered into a one on one conversation with him. I had the feeling that allowing this would lead to my downfall, that he would ask me on a date and I'd be obligated to go to show I wasn't a _total _tease.

I searched for Landa constantly, wondering when he'd take my bait and find me. My ears perked whenever his name was mentioned, and I would join conversations animatedly when his action was brought under discussion. He was spoken of often—one of the more popular attendees tonight—but I learned no more than I had previously.

* * *

Around 8:30, nearly two hours after my initial conversation with him, Landa finally decided to seek me out.

I was in the foyer, alone, staring at the enormous swastika flag there, secretly boiling with rage, when gentle fingers were laid on my shoulder and a glass of champagne was slipped into my hand.

"_Bonjour_, Adele_._"

I smiled, knowing exactly who it was, and turned to meet his eyes.

"Hans," I greeted.

"You see?" he asked in French, tapping his temple. "I have not forgotten!" He meant my name.

How nice of him.

"_Incroyable_," I laughed, mock-surprised. "I was worried it would fly from your head."

He allowed me a half-hearted chuckle, but I thought I might have somehow wounded his pride a little.

"_Donc_, Adele, _how_ are you enjoying Paris?"

The question startled me; he asked it as if I was a visitor.

"I live here," I told him. "I love it. It is my home."

"Yes, but it's not where you're from originally," he replied, smiling that dimpled smile.

My heart plummeted; I felt my skin go icey with panicked sweat; I stared at him, wide eyed, for a moment.

"_Pardon_?" I croaked.

"_C'est exact_?" he asked, a worried look crossing his face. "I _thought _I detected a _hint_ of an American accent. Or am I just imagining things?"

He chuckled, obviously aware that he wasn't.

I didn't know what to say, what I _could_ say. Did he know? I hadn't thought he did, but perhaps…

"_Non_," I finally got out, unable to keep lying.

If he _had_ detected an accent—something no one else had ever accomplished—there was no point in playing games. Every word I spoke would only reveal my lie.

"_Non_, _vous n'imaginez pas des choses_." I smiled, to show it meant very little to me.

"Well, if you'd prefer, we can converse in English."

This was said in my native language. His switch from French to English was sudden and sublime, almost as though his tongue felt no different pronouncing words in either vernacular. He had a phenomenal accent, slightly Austrian but completely comprehensive. I was faintly jealous.

My smile widened, displaying delight instead of the fear that was rushing through my veins.

"_Herr _Colonel, you have a marvelous gift for languages!" I told him in English, my American accent suddenly and painfully bland.

Landa shrugged, complimented.

"Naturally, I understand your trepidation in allowing others to know your country of origin," he told me, a smile still playing around his lips. "It can't be easy with the strain between our two nations. Tell me, when _did_ you move to France?"

His sentences ran into each other, hardly a pause between as his mouth worked to keep up with his brain. His hands moved as his lips did, gesticulating calmly.

I thought back quickly. When had Adele first appeared in society?

Oh God… 1939. The year the war started.

"Just before the war," I said, then laughed quickly. "I can show you my papers, if you want. I assure you, they say that I'm American." I told it like a joke. I was on the verge of crying.

It was true, though, to be safe. No one had ever asked for my papers before, but they _did _say I was American born, even if they were forged.

This was what terrified me. An average German soldier on the street would never know forged papers from real ones. Landa, however, might.

Fortunately, he waved this away, looking amused.

"I apologize. I don't mean to sound as though I'm interrogating you." He shrugged and chuckled. "My line of work sometimes manifests itself in polite conversation. Of course I do not need to see your papers."

Relief washed over me. He _didn't_ suspect. I managed a genuine smile.

"Do you know, you're the first to suspect I wasn't French?" I told him. "A keen tongue and a keen ear. You're pretty accomplished."

"It helps," he said, "to be perceptive. A detective who isn't simply cannot quite—what is that phrase?—cut the mustard?"

I giggled at his use of the idiom.

"You're obviously more than capable of your duties," I said.

His gaze dropped and he smiled a little sheepishly, obviously flattered. This was something that surprised me about Hans Landa; he would appear to be relatively modest, almost embarrassed, when outright complimented. I hadn't expected that, but it certainly added to his charm.

This made me think it was an act.

"Thank you," he said, then quickly changed the subject. "So have you found this winter to be to your liking?"

I thought back to all the nights spent huddling on the ground in the deep forest, the only source of warmth a threadbare blanket, listening to the whimpers of the poor people I was desperately trying to protect. I thought of the hopelessness, the terror, the late night flights from Nazi soldiers we heard in the woods, coming ever closer.

I thought of my first encounter with Landa.

"Christmastime in Paris is wonderful," I said. "My father was Parisian," a lie, part of Adele's back story, "and I've come here every winter since I was very little. I guess you could say it's my wonderland."

Landa looked down, his expression indicating that he was not quite so fond of Paris as I was.

I jumped on this inkling.

"You don't think so?" I asked, a bit rudely.

He opened his mouth to respond, his expression still light as he paused to consider how this question would best be answered. He didn't want to offend me, of that I was certain, but he definitely wasn't fond of Paris. The Nazi swine was probably prejudiced. He doubtless believed everything that wasn't German--or possibly Austrian--was not adequate.

Luckily for Landa, we were interrupted by a very enthusiastic Sophie—obviously bent on prying into and destroying any relationship I was hoping for—who had simply the _most_ exciting news.

"_Louis a proposé à Madeleine_!"

For a moment, I'll admit I was surprised by this statement.

Louis and Madeleine? Newly engaged?

I knew the couple had gone on a few dates but Louis had, only tonight, been attempting to back me into a corner.

I felt bad for his chosen wife.

Sophie stared at me, clearly under the same impression as everyone that I was in love with Louis and wanting to see me break into tears or something at this recent development.

I grinned, delighted that he'd finally be forced to discontinue chasing me.

"_Mervellieux_!" I exclaimed. "_Ils… seront si heureux_!"

I stumbled momentarily with French as my mind attempted to rapidly switch language-- a feat Landa had no difficulty breezing through, I reminded myself with rising fury.

Landa also broke into a grin, though one slightly less comprehending and personal as mine.

"I must meet Louis' new fiancée," he said in French, glancing at me conspiratorially before holding out his hand for me to take. "You know her, _oui_?"

I nodded and placed my hand lightly in his, noting that his skin was warm but dryt, his long fingers a pleasant, slightly roughened, masculine texture.

Apparently there weren't many things about his physicality that were much less than as perfect as he could make them.

I glanced at Sophie, looking at us, calculating, trying to decide just how invested we were in each other.

Apparently what she saw didn't please her, which was good news for me. I had enough of Landa's attention to stimulate jealousy in other women.

He led me away from her, through the crowd on the dance floor. At first I assumed he had spotted Louis and we were making a beeline for him, but after we'd walked through the dancers and out the other side I realized he truly had no interest in meeting Madeleine. He simply could not have cared less about Louis or his coming marriage, but had seized the opportunity to leave Sophie behind.

This lent me yet another inkling into the character that was Hans Landa. His value of the people around him was incredibly low; unless they had his respect, he saw them as less-than-worthwhile and refused to waste his time with them. Of course, most likely to hide this rather monstrous view of others, he could turn on the charm at the drop of a hat, make you feel as though you were simply delightful to him. The fact that he had forgotten my name went towards proving this.

Despite myself, I wondered how he really thought of me. I _thought_ I had captured his attention, but perhaps he was simply humoring me in order to find his way into my bed. I wouldn't put it past him. I knew too many of his former conquests.

Landa brought me to a waiter, who offered us champagne.

"_Merci_, Hermann," he mumbled as the server smiled and swept away. I frowned, wondering whether or not that was actually the man's name, and whether or not Landa cared, but decided against commenting on it. Again, he treated the man as slightly sub-human, illustrating my inference perfectly.

"Wicked man," I told him in English, smirking a little.

Truthfully, I sort of enjoyed the excuse to speak in my native language; it made me feel closer to home than I had in years.

His mouth curled up, dimpling one corner, eyes flicking over me with a roguish grin as he noticed just how amused I was with him. Very rarely did I meet someone so ready to snub Sophie Bellerive and subsequently skip out of fawning over a diamond ring. The man had an impish side… or perhaps his ego was so enormous and his confidence in his charm so huge that he simply believed that he could get away saying and doing most anything.

I had to check myself as he raised a humble shoulder, starting to get a little irritated at just how often his magnetism took me by surprise and pulled me in. While I was more and more confident with every passing moment that his mask of appeal hid either a truly twisted monster or some sort of pathetic genius, I couldn't help but be attracted to his charisma.

It really infuriated me.

"Do you often enjoy a certain wickedness in your affairs?" he asked, glancing behind his shoulders and giving a small wave to a Nazi captain who seemed to be on his way out. I smiled.

"Of course!" I replied. "That's the only way to really have _fun_ nowadays."

It got a delighted laugh from him, and he reached out to touch my arm as he chuckled. I barely kept myself from starting at the physical contact but refused to think about the intimacy of the gesture, about the gentle hand on my arm.

Instead I thought about the dynamic of the situation. He was _flirting_ with me—his soft touch was evidence enough of that—but, worse yet, I'd been flirting back: almost reflexively, my hand had jumped up to rest on his elbow, receptive of the gesture, returning it.

I cursed myself the moment I did it but couldn't very well take my hand off of him before he took his hand off of me; doing so would unravel the whole game, reveal my hidden repulsion, and someone as perceptive as Hans Landa would surely notice.

As it was, his warm fingers rested on my arm for a moment too long, before sliding gently down. I watched in something close to horror as his intent gaze focused on my wrist, his mouth opening slightly and his eyebrows raising.

What did his expression mean? Surprise? Interest? Confusion?

His fingers toyed with the diamond bracelet I wore, thrown on at the last minute before leaving the apartment.

A small smile appeared on Landa's full lips before he took a breath and commented.

"Very lovely jewelry," he praised, rolling a link between his fingers, watching the diamonds flash. "A gift?" He looked up to allow his eyes to meet mine.

This query caused me almost as much shock as his switch to English had earlier. The bracelet had, indeed, been a gift, though this fact in itself did not account for the panic again coursing through me.

I had received the piece of jewelry from the mother of the first Jewish family I had helped escape: the DuPonts...

My memories suddenly transported me back to a frosted woody area in southern France, dawn newly breaking, a crisp sheen of snow blanketing the ground.

I was crying—sobbing, actually—being held comfortingly by Jean DuPont, who also had tears streaming from his eyes. We'd been separated during the night from his wife and children after a group of Nazis had attacked our campsite. The last we'd seen of the others, they'd been running, with officers hot on their tails. We had no idea whether or not they'd been captured.

That may well have been one of the worst nights of my life; it was my first attempt at helping refugees, I'd never been out of the city before—much less freezing cold in the middle of the forest—and I was honestly starting to believe that this endeavor would all be for naught.

Despite having connections with others willing to help us on our way, I was coming to understand just how lonely and helpless this situation was.

Jean and I did not wait long after daybreak to begin our search for his family, and we looked for more than half a day, not even yeilding a clue as to their whereabouts.

Just as we were about to lose all hope and begin to make our way towards Switzerland once more, we heard the sound of crying in a grove of pine near a stream. There, all together, scared and tired but otherwise perfectly fine, were Jean's wife, Rose, and the two children.

We embraced them wildly, with more joy and relief than I had ever felt in my life. I cried again out of sheer happiness to be back with them, and they held me.

It was then that Rose presented me with the diamond bracelet, asking me to take it and wear it whenever I felt I needed the luck we'd had tonight, whenever I wanted whatever God there was up there to truly look out for me.

"It is especially lucky," Rose had told me, "because it was rescued from the boy who was chasing us."

Rose always called the Nazis "boys," as though they were doing what they were doing due to youth and naivety; as though they didn't understand the awfulness of the crimes they committed.

Clearly, I was never so generous towards them. But Rose had the kindest heart I'd ever known.

She went on to explain that she'd grabbed the only bundle of valuables they'd managed to take with them, which was sure to aid the family once they were in neutral territory. This bracelet had slipped loose from the pack, falling to the ground as Riose ran through the woods after her childen. She'd noticed something drop and turned around to see it lying in the dust.

It had been her grandmother's, passed down over two generations, and she simply could not bear to see it in the hands of the enemy, slipping between a greedy Nazi's fingers and into his pocket.

So, foolishly but bravely, Rose had dashed back for it, thinking she had time. The Nazis were losing ground on them, after all.

Just as she'd knelt down to pick it up, the undergrowth had shaken violently and a sole Nazi soldier had stumbled out, obscured by darkness. Rose described the yell he used to attract the attention of the rest of his squad as a "shriek of mad rage," but it seemed his fury was focused on the slower men, as opposed to the Jews he pursued.

Rose knew enough German to understand that the man was calling the other soldiers "lazy, worthless cows." He lunged forward at her, suddenly aiming for whatever it was that she was picking up, thinking, perhaps, that it was a weapon.

When he realized her target item was a diamond bracelet, she'd heard him snap "greedy Jew rat" before she delivered a swift kick between his legs, which sent him tumbling to the ground.

Rose had then jumped up and ran.

I must admit, the bracelet had always given me an extra vote of confidence. I wore it, when appropriate, as a sort of lucky charm.

But under Landa's gaze, I suddenly became paranoid.

Did he know? How could he possibly know the story behind this?

It was ridiculous to even consider it, but it still had me fighting for breath.

"No," I replied to him. "No, actually I _stole _it."

I cringed as I heard myself say it, my tone dripping with sarcasm. I'd always used irony as a defense mechanism, jumping to what bordered on cruel derision if I felt threatened.

My answer, however, pleased the man before me. He let out yet another surprised chuckle, blue eyes sparkling as they raised to meet my brown ones.

"Really?" he breathed as though he truly believed me. He was kidding, of course, playing along--another attempt at flirtation. "From who? The queen of England, surely."

I nodded. "Good guess! Yes, I snatched it from her bedside table as she snored away the sleeping pill I'd slipped into her bedtime hot chocolate."

"The queen of England has hot chocolate at bedtime?" Landa's eyes sparkled, apparently delighted at my playfulness.

Admittedly, I was having fun, too. The seriousness of our times prevented most people from playing into my stories, though that was the way Adele's sense of humor worked. I forced myself as Adele to deliver a sort of light, harmless sarcasm, instead of the deadly kind I was naturally used to.

"_Mais oui_," I replied, kind of getting into it, as though I was some kind of child. But he seemed to like it, especially as I was poking fun at the monarch of his enemy country. "She has a great golden mug of it; at least fourty monthly rations of chocolate every night. That's where it all goes, you know."

Landa chuckled, his mouth opening to say something undoubtedly lovely.

"Hans!" A man suddenly joined our duo, clapping Landa on the shoulder; I recognized him vaguely as some big important political someone or other and smiled charmingly in his direction.

His kind of man disgusted me the most: a robust, red-faced dandy who was used to receiving everything he asked for. On top of this, he was most certainly a Nazi.

Landa turned to him, immediately exchanging amiable words in German while I looked on, smiling uncomprehendingly. They shook hands and laughed together. From the gestures, I caught that the fat man wanted Landa's company somewhere else—perhaps the smoking room—and from the look on Landa's face, his invitation would not be a clever one to refuse.

He glanced at me with no apology, only scrutiny, then turned back to the man and shook his hand again, thanking him for his invitation and accepting it gladly. The man, not even sparing a look in my direction—he'd been surrounded by beautiful women all night, was probably accustomed to them throwing themselves at him for his money; what use did he have for me?—gestured the direction in which they were going and even turned and began to lead the way.

In a rather startling gesture that reflected much more than simple etiquette, perhaps something close to affection for me, Landa tapped him, asking him to wait a moment while he said farewell to me. The man shrugged and looked on, making it clear that Landa should take as little time as possible.

"_Mademoiselle, tu me croit quand je dit que j'aimerais continuer cette conversation_," he told me, again resting his warm hand on my bare shoulder. I relaxed when I heard him speaking French, even if he was suddenly addressing me informally; he was very careful not to allow others to hear him speaking English to me. It pleased me greatly. "_Mais ce monsieur __m'a invité à venir avec lui, et je suis obligé d'accepter_. "

"_Pas de problem_," I replied lightly and truthfully.

I was getting quite exhausted by this whole affair and the stress of having to keep my guard so extremely high; I just wanted to be away from Landa, go home, and sleep.

"But I would like to see you again, if this is acceptable," he said, catching my hand and laying a sweet kiss on it.

His words filled me with a powerful mix of emotions: exhilaration that this game would continue, pride that I had captured his attention, and pure, unadulterated terror.

It caught the words in my throat, caused me to stand there for a moment, a little shocked. My mouth opened and I stared into expectant blue eyes for a moment before fumbling for words.

I knew I could pass my terror off as delight if I forced myself to. So, painting an enormous and elated grin on my face, I nodded, pretending to be breathless.

"Of course, _oui_," I said. "I would love that."

"I'll call on you," he said with a half-nod, half-bow, flashing me his charming smile one last time before turning, his attention entirely focused on the politician, and disappearing into the crowd.

* * *

**I hope you liked it! Review please!!**

**For those wondering, here's translation... most of them are fairly evident, but just in case:**

_Je m'excuse_: Excuse me

_Mais le fait_: But the fact (is)

_C'est exact?_: Is that right?

_Non_, _vous n'imaginez pas des choses _: No, you're not imagining anything.

_Louis a proposé à Madeleine_!: Louis proposed to Madeleine!

"_Mervellieux_!_ Ils… seront si heureux_!: Marvelous! They… will be so happy!

_Mademoiselle, tu me croit quand je dit que j'aimerais continuer cette conversation _: Miss, believe me when I say that I would love to continue this conversation

_Mais ce monsieur m'a invité à venir avec lui, et je suis obligé d'accepter_. : But this gentleman has invited me to come with him, and I am obliged to accept

_Pas de problem: _No problem (My favorite French phrase! :))


	4. Chapter 4

**Hello my wonderful readers! If you're still with me, thank you so much for coming back to this! My life is usually pretty hectic, so writing my stories is turning out to be a rare treat. As usual, I apologize for taking so long.**

**I hope you enjoy! Review please!

* * *

**

"You did _what_?" Christoph exclaimed, nearly dropping the crystal decanter he held in his left hand. He turned from my mantel, the fierce spark of his bright green eyes catching its reflection in the enormous gilded mirror he'd been facing.

"It means nothing," I replied, my hand fluttering in the air as if by doing so I could wave away danger. "I only said I'd _see_ him again. It means _nothing_."

Even I didn't believe my words.

After Landa's farewell at Louis's party, and his promise that he would call on me, I'd immediately regretted my agreeable disposition. I'd left in a frantic rush, boiling with panic, dreading that soon the time might come when the Jew Hunter showed up at my doorstep… to _court_ me!

Those were his intentions, I was sure. What evidence did not point to them? He said he wanted to see me again, asked if he could! That was _surely_ an indication that his objective went beyond friendship. There were certain rules—societal laws, hints and signals—that a man heeded when pursuing a romance. If you were a shrewd girl—and I was—you could use the knowledge of these rules to predict a man's movements and plans.

So when I said my conversation with Landa meant nothing, I was absolutely lying.

Christoph knew this. He, too, was aware of the way things worked.

"_Hazel_," he hissed, crossing my polished hardwood in three long strides, "you know very well what getting close to this man would entail." My eyes lowered, fixing themselves on his shiny black shoes, on the immaculately tailored hem of his pant. He was always genteel, refined, yet so wonderfully passionate. And he was intelligent. He had a very good point. Slowly, his hand rose to rest on my cheek and his voice grew soft. "You will be in very great danger every step of the way."

"Okay. Alright. Christoph, listen," I said quietly, determined to meet his eyes. Coming clean would probably be best here. "You don't understand. I _have _to do this."

He exhaled in frustration, closing his eyes, and the hand that had warmed my cheek went to pinch the bridge of his nose.

"I understand…" he began, running his fingers through his tousled brown hair, "if you entertain ideas of revenge. But the more you attempt to get into Landa's personal life, the more you will have to allow him into yours. You have a lot of secrets, Hazel, and _Hans Landa_ is the last person you want knowing them!"

"I can _do_ this," I replied forcibly. "_Mon Dieu_, _think_ about it! Thereward far outweighs the risk!" I rushed forward, grasping his hands, demanding eye contact. "Christoph, if I get close to Hans Landa—if I gain his trust and learn his secrets—my relationship with him could very well lead to his downfall! If I become the closest person in his life, he will _never_ expect an attack!"

Christoph's gaze grew intense and he glanced for a long second at my red painted nails, at the anxious tension in my fingers. I was earnest in this, and he was beginning to understand that; he knew from past experience that when I was invested in a goal, there was little anyone could do to talk me out of it. He called it stubborn. I called it ambitious.

Christoph took a deep breath through his nose, closing his eyes for half a moment before speaking: "If you are going to do this, Adele…" he leaned forward slightly, intensifying the eye contact, "you must commit with every ounce of your being." I nodded; I already knew where he was going with this. But Christoph knew the Jew Hunter more personally than I did, having spent much time in the more popular Parisian circles and thus often having come into contact with high-ranking Nazis. "Hans Landa is no fool—far from it. He is an expert at reading others—he knows when people are lying, when they are hiding things and, most of all, when they are taking him for a ride."

"I know _all_ of this…" I started, hoping to get a word in, hoping to quell his barrage of warnings for a moment. He took his hands snappishly from mine, knowing exactly what I was up to.

"I _know_ you know," he retorted sharply. "_D'accord? Je comprende, _Hazel. I'm merely reminding you, you entropic specimen. _Il est très, très dangereux_. You could _die_."

"If I do, it would be in an attempt at something I am _strongly_ committed to." I said it lightly, trying to diffuse a little tension. Christoph wasn't having it. His full lips compressed into a thin line.

"You're willing to die for the _chance_ to kill this Nazi?"

"The man I hate most," I affirmed, meeting his eye, meaning every word with the whole of my heart. "Yes. I'm willing to die for his suffering."

Finally, his justified anger seemed to subside. His shoulders slumped and he pushed a hand through his rich brown hair, the corner of his mouth raising only very slightly.

"Well, I suppose it's not completely hopeless."

My ears perked and my mouth twitched into a grin at that. After his dire warnings, I was more than ready to hear how this _could _be accomplished. Christoph would have let me know if it was impossible, and the fact that he hadn't gave me all the hope I needed.

"We do have an advantage here," he mused, and I thrilled at his use of "we." It meant he was with me on this. "You, Hazel Montgomery, are a very good liar."

"I prefer the term '_acteur '_," I replied, stuck between flattered and offended.

"_Oui, oui, acteur_," he briskly shook away my interjection. "_Sociétaire, artiste, figurant;_ whatever you wish. In any case, it is very hard for someone who hasn't known you for years to tell whether you are being truthful or crafting elaborate stories. Luckily for your friends, you have an honest heart. Unluckily for Colonel Landa, you will use this talent to its extreme. You will stretch your lying farther than you've thought possible. Any time you are not alone or with me, you will be operating under this ruse, Hazel—the ruse of a French aristocrat who is absolutely besotted with a Nazi colonel." He chuckled helplessly. "I certainly couldn't do it. But if this plan is to go off without a hitch, even _you_ will have to believe you love him."

"I can do this," I repeated, a promise to myself as much as to him. "He won't suspect a thing. You know how well hidden I keep Hazel…"

"We must do better than hide her," he cut me off, striding suddenly towards the bookcase in the corner, the one which swung forward to reveal a hidden stairway up to attic space—the one which came very much in handy when I was looking for a place to hide runaways for a few days. Christoph unlocked the white catch at its side—cleverly concealed amidst spiraling designs where bookcase met wall—and opened the clandestine door.

No one was staying there at present. The stairwell was silent and dark, and he gazed for a long moment into the blackness welling around the top. I knew we both were remembering quiet sobs, gentle singing and the slow shifting of the multiple Jewish families I'd shown sanctuary over the years.

"Obviously, you can't hide people here anymore," he said, his voice hushed, a little melancholy. There was a moment of silence before, "Come with me." So saying, he disappeared into the passage.

Frowning, I grabbed a white taper candle and hurried after him, the frail light illuminating dusty white stairs and the exposed beams of the attic space beyond.

I hadn't entered this room since the Doleracs left two weeks prior, but I was pleased to find it wasn't a wreck. The family—kind and quiet and grateful—had obviously tidied after their stay, but that didn't eliminate the three suspicious cots, the rocking chair or the table in the corner—complete with a vase of faux white roses.

Christoph wasted no time in lighting three lamps and rolling up and tossing the mattress pads downstairs. I followed his lead in determined silence—first I ran the vase and stools to my parlor, then came back for the slightly heavier rocking chair. Christoph efficiently maneuvered the table out of there as I returned for the lamps, extinguishing their oily flames.

Finally, the two of us stood at the bottom of the stairwell, gazing into black, empty, apparently unused attic space. In the future, while Landa's possible discovery of my secret door could be uncomfortable, it would by no means threaten my secrets.

The rest of my apartment was relatively innocent. Christoph relieved me of a few of the denser philosophical and political books I owned, especially anything concerning modern anti-Axis ideals, but I had always made very sure to allow Adele to do most of my decorating and furnishing.

"Now," Christoph began, sinking into an armchair after his inspection of my penthouse was complete. "What are your immediate plans?"

I sat down, too, across from him on the love seat, and stayed silent for a long moment. The truth was, I hadn't really thought about short-term moves, fixated instead on the overarching goal. This was an unfortunate sticking point, but I didn't want to appear to him as though I was floundering already.

So, I subtly squared my shoulders and announced decisively: "I'll do what I always do when I'm seducing someone. I'll be so absolutely attractive he won't have a choice but to fall." I was only kind of being serious.

Christoph smiled at this and leaned forward, clasping his hands together, elbows resting on his knees.

"You think you're very clever, don't you?"

"Yes, I do."

He chuckled. "That won't be nearly enough. You know this."

"_Oui, je sais_," I agreed, "but you asked only for _immediate_ plans, _mon amour_. And this is how I will get his attention."

"Hazel, my dove," he sighed; there was patronizing sarcasm dripping from his tone and I folded my arms and leaned sulkily back against the couch. He caught this gesture of disapproval and smiled at it; this was how we played and teased. His ironic sense of humor went very well with mine.

"Christoph, my cow," I said, indicating that I was listening to him.

"You already _have_ his attention," he said firmly. "Your problem is how to keep it." I quirked an eyebrow.

"I'm _fully_ capable of keeping a man's attention."

"I'm very aware of this," Christoph said with a small smirk. "And so are most of you male acquaintances." I opened my mouth to pretend to be offended but he went on without giving me the chance. "Your flirtations are not the issue at hand here. You must do more than flirt to win him."

"How do you know?" I argued. "It's worked with everyone else I've pursued. It worked with you."

"I am no Landa."

I sat there in silence for a moment, a little surprised at his comment. I considered Christoph extremely intelligent, and he knew he was clever. I'd never before heard him demean his own acumen in comparison with someone else's. For a moment I considered the possibility that he was overestimating Landa. In truth, I very much liked the idea. But I knew it was very unlikely. Christoph could be an extreme realist at times, and he had a very even, measured view of the world around him. He was seeing this situation exactly as it was. That scared me. If _Christoph_ was no match for Landa, how could _I_ be?

"So what do you suggest?" I asked, my tone lower, sobered now. The gravity of what I had set in motion was slowly sinking in. What was I doing?

But if not me, who?

Christoph was watching my face intently, but apparently saw nothing in my expression. He frowned and sighed.

"You can't continue frivolous flirting," he said, "not with Landa and certainly not with other men. If you do—if you tease and play coy—he'll see through this act and only be interested in sleeping with you. And if you let him, he'll almost certainly lose interest."

"I'm not _that_ bad," I protested jokingly, and Christoph laughed.

"This is not personal. It isn't difficult to see the patterns in Hans Landa's romances. Instead of falling into that rut, I suggest you make your attraction very clear. Charm him, but demonstrate just how invested in him you are. He won't be able to guess the real motive if you treat him as though he is the man you hope to marry."

"That would appeal to his ego, I think," I said, on board with everything Christoph had said. "He'll consider taking things slow respectful…"

"It will hold his fascination," Christoph replied, a little bitterly, "if you seem to care enough about your relationship to resist his charms and advances… of which there will be plenty, I assume."

"It sounds like you simply don't want me to sleep with him," I teased. Christoph shrugged.

"I'll admit, the idea of him touching you is repulsive." He looked away from me, pursing his lips. "No, Hazel, I don't want you to sleep with him."

I was a little touched. I'd never been sure what exactly Christoph and I had together, though the romance we'd entertained turned out to be injudicious; there had been too many tears, too much stress over the other person's safety, too much instability. We had drowned for a while in our world of melancholy letters back and forth across borders, of heated meetings in the woods, of anarchy and anger. The passion had frightened me at times. At the beginning of the war we had been children in revolt against the injustices perpetrated by our enemies, recklessly throwing our lives to chance and recklessly falling in love.

But the horrors we experienced sobered us quickly and snatched away the last of our innocence. We had separated sadly but lovingly, acknowledging that it simply couldn't work.

"I don't want to sleep with Hans Landa, either," I said truthfully. "But… after a certain point…"

"It can't be avoided," he conceded with a sigh.

"I don't know how long this charade will have to go on before I can make my final move," I explained—he knew all of it, I was sure, but he wanted to hear it, if only for the comfort my elucidation would provide. "It could take weeks to get that close to him. It could take months. But I will need his absolute and utter trust. I will need to strike when, and only when, he feels completely comfortable with me. I don't know what kind of a man Hans Landa is, Christoph, at least not really. I can see the façade he presents when in company. I see the women he sleeps with and the men who respect him. But in a real relationship, where love might enter the picture?" I shrugged. "I don't even know if he _can_ love. But if he can, if we grow close but I still keep him dangling in the physical aspects…" I shook my head. "He won't like it. No man would. I don't know when he will grow impatient with my coyness, but when he does I may have to prove I am not a tease, or he could be done with me."

Christoph's green eyes locked onto mine.

"If it comes to it," he said, "would you actually go that far?" I laughed, disgusted at the very thought.

"I may have to."

* * *

After Christoph's characteristic cynicism, I was feeling rather bad about how the seduction of Landa might work out. For a few days following our initial discussion, I wallowed in perpetual anxiety and hopelessness. I stayed inside, cleaned obsessively, removed any garments of clothing that were less than in vogue. I trimmed my hair, manicured my nails, groomed my eyebrows—did everything I could to achieve that extra vote of confidence, without which Adele was strikingly absent. But nothing worked. Even though Christoph promised to help me, even believed I could do it, his negative comments were all I could stew in. His voice echoed in my head, haunting, the disgust and respect in his tone absolutely terrifying:

"I am no Landa."

It was true, Christoph had not been my most difficult achievement. Other men had proven far less susceptible to my charms. But the greatest difference was that my heart had longed for each and every person. With Landa, my heart only desired his death.

I was worried over my performance, because, of course, I had never been in a serious relationship with someone I did not adore. But I couldn't focus solely on that, I knew. It was a concern, but I had to keep my head up and remember my goals.

So, one fine Saturday morning, I woke up, dressed in a knee length blue dress and a black trench, and walked to the square.

Paris is lovely early in the day, when things are a little quieter and cool sunlight peeks through the bare branches of trees lining the avenue. I sauntered down a cobblestone road, inhaling the crisp, thin air, puffs of my breath fogging out in front of me. The plaza a few blocks from my home was nearly empty today, only a few early shoppers leaving merchants with long loafs of bread tucked under their arms. I stopped in a café for a cappuccino and a cigarette, ordering a scone halfway through my drink.

It felt wonderful to be in a public place again, with the opportunity for social interaction, and it was empowering to know that I'd taken charge of my own melancholy. I felt much better almost immediately, more optimistic, and I found Adele's winning smile spreading my lips. Things were normal outside of my anxiety—the world clicked on as usual, Paris brimmed with millions of people who were not Nazis, the coffee was fresh and the scone was delicious.

I soaked in the intensifying daylight, a scarf cozily bundled around my neck, braced a little against the chill of late December. But the hot drink and burning tobacco helped, and I was quite happy simply people-watching for a long time.

At some point my eye was distracted by a kindly looking old woman who was making her way slowly across the square, bending to pick things up off the ground at regular intervals—little objects I couldn't make out, assuming they weren't imaginary. I spent a long time amusedly trying to identify exactly what she was gathering, watching her delicate old fingers snatch and hold her treasures before weak blue eyes to examine them.

She continued this until an interloper, striding vigorously across the square, stepped right in front of her on his way and she stopped to look up at him curiously.

From there my eyes followed the new figure, landing first on his shiny black boots before traveling up his well-postured back to his proud shoulders. He was brisk, his back to me, the determined cantor of his pace indicative of places to go and things to do. His long black trench coat immediately raised my hackles, as I was reminded of the S.S., but he lacked the signature cap on his dark blond head he didn't seem to be displaying any medals or signs of authority.

I cocked my head, attracted despite myself. His walk was confident, his hips were narrow, he was tall… I was interested to see if his features were as handsome as I immediately assumed (perhaps hoped).

My opportunity came when a peddler, rolling an exquisite looking cart of fresh croissants across the cobblestones, suddenly changed course and ran straight into the man's path. Both were clicking along too hurriedly to fully correct their movements, and the blond man's hip clipped the side of the pushcart as he passed, causing it to tip precariously. He spun fully 180 degrees at the impact, a quick hand reaching out to steady the wheels before he stumbled back, fully facing my café.

Giggling, I watched him gain his composure for a full thirty seconds before realizing who he was.

Suddenly, my face was burning and a cold wave of dread washed down my spine. My hands gripped my coffee cup of their own accord, too tightly, knuckles going white. I couldn't believe this was happening. I _wouldn't_ believe it. No. No no no not here, not this place. This was _my _neighborhood; this place was sacrosanct! Too close to home! I didn't know why he was here, and I _certainly _didn't want to encounter him so soon!

After so many days of planning and pondering and fretting over him, Hans Landa—true to form—had turned up unexpectedly in my territory. He didn't know—couldn't know—I'd be here, of course. It was just a startling, unbelievable coincidence. Perhaps there was something comforting in that.

I heaved a deep breath as Landa dismissed the poor baker, straightening his coat and regaining his dignity so thoroughly that he managed to make the _other_ man look stupid. As he turned and started again on his way, I made a hasty decision. This opportunity was likely random and rare, and I might never have it again. I had to turn the tables on him early in the game, take the upper hand, and here he was, unknowingly treading on _my_ turf.

I stood, threw a few francs on the table as a tip, and hurried after him.

Landa's pace had slowed after his close encounter with the vendor; he seemed to have decided that getting places sooner was no fair trade for unnecessary collisions. I followed him down a charming side lane lined with food merchants, watching what drew his eye. He was appreciative of the street art hanging on cheap easels, and he appeared charmed by quaint, quintessentially French scenes: fresh pastries in a _boulangerie_ window, stalls of cheap, weather-stained books, displays of wine and roses.

Watching him without his knowledge was interesting. I wanted to do it more often. It lent me rare insight into who he was, but I was a little frightened by it. When casual and relaxed, he didn't seem monstrous. He was in good spirits, lifted a hand pleasantly in greet when addressed, stopped to chat agreeably with a fruit vendor. It was all very amiable; I kept forgetting how good of an impression he made if you didn't know who he was.

I needed to get a move on. He wouldn't stay here forever.

Landa lingered for a while by _le poissonnerie_ at the junction of the next street, eyes on the fresh white halibut in the window, and I used his momentary pause to slip inside the shop without gaining his attention. I stayed there for a long moment, watching through the window as he seemed to decide against the fish and turned to face the alley.

Here was my chance. I could come from the store and catch him from behind. I _had_ to do this _now_!

Heart pounding, I plastered on a grin and walked outside, humming.

The angle was perfect. I had a view of profile from behind his left shoulder, but he couldn't see me. Stuffing my shaky hands in the pockets of my coat, I stopped in my tracks.

"_Pardonnez-moi, Monsieur, mais est-ce que vous parlez l'anglais _?" The question ("do you speak English?") came out in a purposefully atrocious accent, and it fooled him long enough that he waved a distracted hand without even turning to look, thinking me to be a stupid American tourist or something.

"_Non_," he replied with his back to me, "_je m'excuse, mademoiselle_."

"You liar!" I exclaimed laughingly in English. He spun quickly then, as recognition stirred something, a huge grin lighting up his face.

"Adele Benoit!" he laughed, apparently genuinely glad when he recognized me, his hands flying up in a pleasantly surprised gesticulation. I smiled, trying to think what else to say, but all thoughts ceased when he reached forward and laid two gentle hands on both my shoulders. Gracefully, easily, as though we'd been friends for years, he leaned toward me and kissed first one cheek, then the other. The Parisian way.

A dull rage boiled up in me as the Nazi swine's warm skin made contact with mine, but I grinned, grasped his elbows and returned the affectionate gesture with enthusiasm.

"What an unexpected pleasure, to see you here," Landa said. My smile, when I turned it on him, was perfectly genuine.

_No, Colonel Landa. The pleasure is all mine.

* * *

_**It's kind of short, I know, but I wanted to get this posted ASAP! I'm struggling with what should happen next. Let me know if you have any suggestions! :)**


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